An air of tension filled the room. A man lay before us on the operating table, with multiple wounds. Several were life-threatening. He appeared to be middle aged, white male, severely overweight. Name unknown, no identification, no one accompanying him. Someone just dropped him off without notice or explanation of how he ended up in this sorry state. Assigned to save this poor bastard's life was myself and two inexperienced assistants. I cleared my throat and spoke with a loud, stoic disposition.
“X-Ray shows obstruction in the patient's esophagus, stomach, and large intestine. Fracture to the sternum, right elbow, two ribs on the right side, and right shin. Extensive joint, muscle and ligament damage in the left wrist, both knees, and left ankle.”
My assistants give me a simple nod of affirmation, and we begin our work. For what seems like an eternity, we toil. From one ailment to another, we do God's work with a steady hand and a hawk's eye. We are careful, methodical, and intense.
At last I turn my attention to the blockage in the large intestine. “Nurse, the tweezers please.”
“Look, we've been at this for a long time. We need to take a br-” I cut her off.
“Tweezers, nurse!”
She handed them to me, and sighed. Not just a natural sigh, but one that was deliberate and needlessly drawn out. My hands trembled for a moment, but I collected myself. As I moved the tweezers toward the patient, my male assistant spoke up.
“I really need to go to the bathroom, and I'm hungry.” His voice was whiny.
I'd had enough. “Look, maybe you two don't care about this patient's life, but I do! When a professional starts their work, they finish it. When amateurs work, they give up when they get tired, they take breaks, they whine about needing to go to the bathroom. A professional gets the job done. What are you? Are you professionals?” The male assistant raises his hand in protest and starts to speak, tears welling up in his eyes. “Don't you dare say a word!”
He quickly lowered his hand, and his head in shame. The female assistant started to speak, and I shot her a stare that, were a simple look to have physical power, would've put her in a worse state than the patient. I returned my attention to the task at hand, taking several deep breaths before testing my hands again. Steady as an oak.
I carefully pulled out the obstruction and began to clean up. Both my assistants left the room, clearly upset. The sound of the refrigerator door slamming in the next room told me everything I needed to know.
That was the last time my family played Operation.
